


Days of Our Lives

by archea2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Animal Transformation, Day At The Beach, Drabble Collection, End of the World, Fluff, Ghost Sam Winchester, Humor, Long-suffering Castiel, M/M, Priest Kink, Romance, Scars, Season/Series 14 Spoilers, Sick Sam Winchester, Valentine's Day, Villanelle, Waltzing, You and me against the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-10-20 08:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 9,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: A collection of Sam'n'Dean drabbles and ficlets. Some more on the gencest side, some explicit. Some may be spoilery for the latest season, in which case I'll add a warning.Chapter 20: "Villanelle". Gabriel watches Sam during the events of "Mystery Spot".





	1. Waltzing Winchesters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One, two, three. One, two, three," Sam mutters, hunched down and practically duck walking around the map room. He would have rock-scissored Dean for the Lead, if Dean hadn't been very clear on who would infiltrate the vampire deb ball.

"One, two, three. One, two,  _three_ ," Sam mutters, hunched down and practically duck walking around the map room. He would have rock-scissored Dean for the Lead, but Dean hadn't been very clear on who would infiltrate the vampire deb ball. 

"Stop testing the freakin' mike," Dean says, because Dean. "It's not even on yet."

"If you'd just let me show you..."

"In your dreams." Dean's pointy leathered toe trips; keels him forward, clutching his six-foot  _cavalière_ 's flannels before he can stumble. "Son of a bitch! You're supposed to step back!"

"Left foot change, Rhett Butler."

"When did you even learn to waltz?" Dean gripes, wiping his brow with his white silk scarf. The tux has come courtesy of Ketch, who, at some (least said soonest mended) point, had made a point of knowing not only how many ratty duds Dean owned, but his complete set of measures, crotch included. 

Silence answers, but Sam's hand goes rigid on his shoulder.

"...Sammy?"

"Long ago," Sam said, his voice quiet, above and past Dean's questing gaze. "Still a customary first dance... at a..."

Dean lets the voice peter out, but stresses his embrace of Sam's waist.

"One, two, three," he says, and the words become meaningful, a blazon of their lives ever since he took that first step towards Stanford.

"One, two, three," Sam whispers, and lets Dean swing him impeccably round the room.

 


	2. He jests at scars...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after 4x05, "Monster Movie". Dean chuckles over his first new scar. Sam - not so much.
> 
> Title quote from Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ , "He jests at scars that never felt a wound."

"So," Dean said, the Oktoberfest a mote in Baby's windshield. Somehow, he'd talked Jamie into topping their best thermos with her beer, and was compounding his felony by slurping, smirking and smearing foam over his upper lip, all in one fell swoop. "Here's to numero uno."

  
"Come again?"  
  
Dean amped his smile until it was positively Cheshire-brand.   
  
"Scars, man. Remember what I said about my new, smooth hide? Old news, Sammy my boy. Jamie there ran her nails all the way down my spine while she kissed me. Mmmm, Beauty  _and_  the Beast, two for one, just my luck. I'm gonna treasure that -"  
  
"Huh," Sam said. Forcefully. "Spare me the visual, okay? And keep your eyes to the road -" for Dean was twisting his neck and shoulders away from his seat, obviously intent on procuring ocular evidence for his co-pilot. "You got beer and a love scratch to go, hurrah. Next pit stop, let's make sure you get your hair pulled along with the extra side of fries."   
  
"Whoa,  _whoa_. When did we get all monogamous?" Sam did not answer, and Dean, puzzled at the lack of response to his four-syllable feat, pushed his new, smooth luck. "If you don't like me being plurigamous, fine, call time-out. It was just a kiss, Sam."  
  
"Not the kiss," Sam said through hard teeth.   
  
Dean did some quick reckoning."The... the numero uno?"  
  
"Look," Sam said with an outburst of Sam-fervour, and, god, Dean had missed it. Had missed the way Sam's voice delivered each plosive and fricative with an extra side of emphasis when upset. "I know there's not a chance in... I know you're gonna get knocked about, hard and again. Ours a bruising job, yeah. But - but I'm the one who cleaned up your gashes, Dean, and they kept giving even after you... because, yeah, Hell likes its bloodplay up and coming. Who knew?"  
  
"Sammy..."  
  
"I tried salt and holy water. When it failed, I tried my tears. Nothing like home remedies, right?"  
  
"Sam. _God_ , Sam, shut up."  
  
"So don't expect me to gawk at your next crop reverently, Dean. Because, if it was up to me -'  
  
Dean slammed the brakes home. It proved good enough to silence Sam, while Dean swerved Baby to the side and, one-armedly, groped for his plosive boy. He had one foot down and one hand still on the wheel when he brought their mouths together, hard, looking to bruise. The kiss burst into pain, but then Sam unlocked his mouth and the pain coalesced in warmth - bitter, like the ghost of ale on Dean's tongue, but bittersoft, and, when Sam's hand spanned across their cheeks, sheer soft.   
  
(God, but he'd missed that, too.)  
  
"...Hey," he said at length, mostly to let Sam's breath catch up with his tingling lips "Wanna hear something smooth?" Sam shook a mute head, and Dean laughed, a gentle puff of air. "I packed those lederhosen just for you, Sammy."


	3. Live long and despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asking Rowena for a spell that would ensure Dean's welfare? Sure, great idea, Sam.
> 
> (Humour)

"It would help," Castiel says doggedly, "if you could talk with Sam."  
  
"Nope." Dean glowers; takes the fresh tray out and shoves its four mini-burgers straight into his mouth. They're the size of macarons, because Dean has been on a baker's dozen high all morning, reviewing sauce and cheese varieties. So far they've tried pepperoni pizza burger, blue cheese and sauce verde, barbecued cheddar, garlic and pepper, caramelized onions and Brie, and Dean's favorite "cowboy" iteration, bacon and Monterey Jack both over and under the meat.   
  
To no avail.  
  
It's a good thing Castiel is here temper the heat. Well, the oven's heat.  
  
"Your brother is adamant that it is not his fault."  
  
"He is the one who dealt with Rowena, not I. Damnit!" Dean pushes the tray away. "Why does the beef keep tasting like beet?"  
  
"It doesn't sound that diff -" Castiel ducks his head in time to avoid the spoon. "I am sure Sam only had your best interests at heart. The White Grimoire is an honorable book, Dean. Its spells were devised aeons ago to help mankind - and if anyone deserves a long life..."  
  
"A long and  _healthy_  life," Dean grits out, before he desperate-measures a nearby cannoli into his mouth, then spits it out. "For God's -!"  
  
Cas, long versed in white magic, hazards a guess. "Brocoli?"  
  
"I swear, I'mma  _kill_  him."   
  
"Again, not his doing. Technically." Cas waits out a beat. "And he did bring you pie. It appears that the pie gets a pass."  
  
"But not the beer."  
  
"Pear juice is filled with vitamin K." Another looming, ominous beat. "... Or I could change the molecules for you."  
  
"Yeah." Dean exhales heavily. "Yeah, you - do that little thing, and Sammy lives to see another healthy day."


	4. Salt, iron and Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An AU epilogue to 14x10, "Nihilism", where Dean tells Sam about Billie's visit right away. 
> 
> Angsty hurt/comfort

They lie side to side, the little black book lying open between them. Billy's omen, more cruel than the grave.  
  
Dean thinks he can hear Sam's heart even with the distance between them. It beats like an ember, no less fiery than Michael's thumps, its anger equally harsh for being on Dean's behalf. If Dean listened to himself, he would bend his head and tuck the gesture against Sam's chest.

Instead, he listens to Sam.  
  
"Or we could -"  
  
"And gank this world.  _Plus ça change_ , man."  
  
"Chuck -'  
  
'Signed it away to us, for a millenium mini-break with his sister."  
  
Sam's large hand falls on the open book, becomes a fist that bunches up the last page, as if Sam could squeeze the ink out of it. "Just for once - just so you know - I wish. I wish I knew how to choose wrong again."  
  
He is crying, and Dean just can't keep away. The tears are salt, iron and Sam, Dean's three blessings in his line of trade, and ain't that a bitch. But he takes them into his mouth, takes his mouth to Sam's cheeks, running with Sam's grief, and swallows the corrosive pain. It's like Sam's old gift is back and Dean gets a share in the vision: hot-white, an entire planet roaring up as it ends. It's both beyond scary and oddly abstract, a pixellated map of destruction, cross-fading into enough ash for Michael to leave his thumbprint in for Chuck to find.   
  
"But you and I in Heaven," Sam murmurs, "in that field again, launching our fireworks." The words are a trailed kiss, salt-raw. "Or Hell. My throne, my treat."  
  
"Sweetheart," Dean says, the name he once used for his girls, then his car, until he ran out of surrogates.   
  
"You should know, by now," Sam whispers, not dark, plain despairing. "You're worth the world, Dean."  
  
"I'm worth a size A fire dumpster?" Dean asks, and when Sam's mouth stills, kisses it back. "Yeah, didn't think so."  
  
They're body to body now, the book dangling on the edge of the bed, half-forgotten. "I'm not choosing," Sam repeats, and Dean hushes. Let the choice wait upon morning; for now, let him turn his head towards Sam's beat, Sam's heart, Sam's primal rhythm, strong enough to give the world and Dean Winchester sanctuary for a night.


	5. Bring it on, Gonzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was nice of Chuck to give them a night of advanced notice. No pain, He'd promised. No angst. Just, Amara and He had finally agreed it was time to close this chapter and turn a new, Heavenly page together.

"Well, we tried," Sam says, and to his own wonder hears Dean's chuckle, Dean's breath, still pumped faithfully from lungs to mouth and nostrils, tickling his ear.

"Ain't nobody can deny that. Hey. Remember what Dad used to say? Success is never final...."

"Failure's never fatal." Sam tautens the circle of his arms, keeps his eyes to the starry sky. It was nice of Chuck to give them a night of advanced notice. No pain, He'd promised. No angst. Just, Amara and He had finally agreed it was time to close this chapter and turn a new, Heavenly page together. "You made sure it wasn't."

Dean doesn't answer at once, but the breath at Sam's ear thickens. Then...

"What now?"

"You're asking me?" Sam says, half jocular, and when Dean grunts "You're the faith nerd, you tell me", ponders a bit. "I have no idea. But I can tell you Saint Louis de Gonzague's answer."

"Bring it on, Gonzo."

"So get this. Louis was eleven or twelve, I think, top of his class, loved to play soccer -"

"Only ate his pancakes with carrots shredded in them."

"Shut up, I was eight. And one day, while he and his pals were at half-time, the cleric who coached them..."

"The cloach?"

"If you like. The cloach asked, what would you do if I told you the world is ending in ten minutes, tops."

"Dude. My lifetime's prayer quota is vastly overd -."

"And Louis said, I'd kick that ball in the ass."

"..."

"Damn right, too."

"Damn right."

"Want another beer?"

"Looking at you, kid."


	6. The Stan/Ford scholarship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam prepares to leave for Slash Law School. John is not happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one is plain silly. But trust me, "Samuel the Slash Lawyer" is a bona fide meme, although one with a restricted audience.

"SAMUEL!" John Winchester's bellow shook the rusty, rickety motel's foundation. "Where do you think you're going?"

  
Sam met him eye to steadfast eye. "Told you, dad. To Slash Law School. Full ride, Stan/Ford Pines scholarship - I'm taking Brothercest as my major." He smiled tightly. "Still in the family business, sir. To the  _boner_."  
  
"You're an unspeakable disgrace to -"  
  
"Sure." Sam gave a Kansan Gallic shrug; reached for his duffel. He turned to the third party still blocking the doorway. "Dean. Wanna hear my take on the Plant vs. Page divorce case?"  
  
Dean's eyes were a little tearful. "Don't want them to divorce, Sammy."  
  
"They won't,' Sam said generously. "Not under the new RPF amendment, pending on the Fictional Justice Reform bill."  
  
"Son, you walk out that door, I swear to God -"  
  
But Dean had taken a sidestep and was busy hoisting Sam's backpack on his own shoulder. "I'll drive you," he offered. "You sure about that bill?"  
  
"Positive - and it comes with a restricting order on Decaf Shop AUs."  
  
"Awesome!" Dean beamed. "So, have you chosen a major yet?"  
  
"Oh yeah. No objection there." Sam waved vaguely to an uncharacteristically silent John and slipped his arm under Dean's. "Let's get going, and I'll tell you all about it in the car."


	7. Shut up, sing on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fill for a "Lipogram" challenge, i.e. leave a letter out. It's more fun when you choose a vowel, so I chucked out A for Azazel, Apocalypse, Archangel, Alastair, Asmodeus, Abbadon, etc. Probably not the boys' favourite.

11 p.m. in the Fortress of Jerkitude. O silent night? You wish.

Like, you’d think being the big boss dude when it comes to the night’s leisure would be enough, but no. Licorice buffet? Rings in bitch o’clock. Crumbs on his recliner? Sin supremo. Eurovision on tv? Send the hunters!

"You quite done here, Moe?"

Nothing like your Simpson quote to set the mood going. Killer peep, right under his frown lines. God, but you love those lines. Could write odes to them. Bright new Ph.D., if required. Let him hit forty unsoothed but uninjured, you’ll be worshipping his lion’s wrinkle, to your tongue’s delight.

Right now, though, your tongue is unwished for. Not when he’s stuffing his mouth full while singing "Rey, ouch, hey, hm" with conviction.

(Oh well. Why bother with precision, off the field?)

(Why bother with tune, if he’s still got the voice?)

(The lungs, the vim, the _life_?)

" …hey, hm… hm… hrmmm? Popcorn up my nose?"

"…Shut up, sing on."


	8. The show does go on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Supernatural musical from 10x5 ends up on Youtube. 
> 
> Three years later, on a quest for the Most Holy man, Sam Googles "man without sin", and...

Sam hadn't been wrong about the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious tech at St. Alonso's Academy.  
  
It came with two cams, set high enough to record the musical _and_  avoid the mauve goo shower. Parts of the recording ended up on Youtube (by kind permission of Carver Edlund), others on Maeve's blog, when she chose to major in theatre tech. The blog was visited by various and sundry  _habitués_  of the Winchesters' playground dates, though Lucifer gave it a pass. At least, that's what he told Chuck on their reunion meeting - adding that his father's Word was bad enough without the extra razzle-dazzle.   
  
Gabriel and Rowena were less picky. They managed to string the entire show together during the former's convalescence, and could be heard singing "A Single Man Tear", the Act 1 money shot, again, and again, and  _again_ , and once more with feeling, until Dean threatened to tear them a single new one.

Michael's opinion remains unknown, though Youtube user EditYourDraftsDamnit did leave a searing review.  
  
As for Sam and Dean, they ignored the whole caboodle for three years, until Sam Googled "man without sin" during his most-holy-wild-goose-chase, and...  
  
"Clowns or brunettes?" Dean asked (because Dean) from the doorway. Then - "Huh. Nice to know I'm taller than you in the public eye."  
  
It was almost criminal, how easy Dean made it for him. "Yeah," Sam agreed. "And the public ear obviously thinks you're a soprano."  
  
"Oh yeah," Dean said, blissfully missing the point. He'd dragged a chair next to Sam's while his screen counterpart was trilling her tale of woe. "That Tony was ace. He had a horse named Pie-O-My!"  
  
Sam refrained from further comment, catching up instead with the part he'd missed.

"Did you just... friendzone Cas?"  
  
"Other Me did." Dean frowned. "Odd. From what I recall, she and Other Cas had a thing. Another thing?"  
  
"You're wasted on logic, man." They watched on, as "A Single Man Tear" carried on bravely, if a little waywardly. Sam expected Dean to up and turn on his heel at this point, but Dean's eyes were glued to the screen. Sam kept his voice gentle.  
  
"Other Me... is carrying quite the torch for you."  
  
"It's the subtext." Dean uncrossed his legs; crossed them again, counter-clock-wise. He cleared his throat. "It's complicated."  
  
"It is," Sam said, as the Youtube excerpt came to a halt, and the countdown to the next snippet began. He sat very still. So did Dean. The curtain began to part on each side of the Impala. "Or is it?"  
  
His brother leant forward to turn off the volume.  
  
"That part I know," he said, and wriggled with wanna-be nonchalance until their hips were touching. "It starts with _Just the two of us_."  
  
"Theatre kid," Sam reminded him, as they waited for their stand-ins to mouth their lines. "I won't need a cue, Dean."


	9. Sand between our toes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A comfort coda for 14x12, "Prophet and Loss". There's one last fear Dean needs to exorcize.
> 
> There was no specified location for the Happy Daze Nursing Home, so I've kept the boys in Delaware.

Sam’s eyes give up on him the moment he’s buckled himself next to Dean. Dean’s dream two nights ago may have been a doozy, but Sam saw the blood and the lacerated wall too, and his next night was a wake, a pre-posthumous replay of Dean’s fate in Sam’s mind, more vicious than any _It_ remake. The scare has been exorcized, partly, but the sadness remains; the tears (never a relief) still chafing his cheeks, even as his breath lengthens, and he vaguely hears Dean browsing the radio channels until Johnny Cash hums them along.

When he wakes up, Baby’s windows are filled with light, clear as any watercolor, and Cas is gone.

“Hey,” Sam mumbles, and then, stupidly, “Is it day? How long did you -”

The resonant crush of wave to sand answers him, jolting his senses alert. They’re parked on a little country lane looking over a beach, still deserted, still pristine under the white-gold light.

“...We’re still in Delaware,” Sam says, officially hitting the clear-minded mark.

“Huh, Yeah. Thought of a new end to this trip.” Dean sounds... self-conscious, like whenever he feels he owes Sam one. But strong, too, like whenever Dean looks his heart and his gut in the face, an anatomic feat he's got better at with the years. “See, Billie’s happy end. There’s something about it really ticks me off.”

“You don’t say.”

“No, not the dying part. Or the life sentence with Michael. That’s plain scary” - and Dean speaks the word so simply that Sam unbuckles himself and leans sideways, thirsty for any warm touch to take or give. Dean lets him, either not caring that they’re busting the Winchester hug quota for the year, or grateful that Sam is smooshing his good profile. “Just - I always wanted to take you to the sea.”

And Sam remembers now. The memory is pungent, poignant - making him nod his _yes_ into Dean’s cheek.

“The Pacific, too. Nicer. Warmer. You in a plaid muumuu.”

“Actually, the Atlantic is warmer,” Sam says, and watches Dean’s ear prick at the news. “Though maybe not at crack of dawn.”

Ten minutes later they’re both barefoot and splashing, while the sunlight nets the little waves around their toes and the scent is of salt and morning. The crash of the waves is everywhere, and Sam inspects Dean’s face anxiously, but Dean only shakes his _no_. The bruise on his left jaw has turned a steady purple.

“Kiss it,” Dean says, and when Sam wavers, says it again and tar-voiced. “Remember that gash? On your hand? Remember what I told you when that bastard was busting your hinges?"

"Dean..."

"Make this my stone, Sammy.”

Sam puts his lips to the bruise and presses once, hard, twice, open, kisses the width of the bruise.

“I’ll remember,” Dean murmurs. They’re standing in the sea, sort of, and Sam thinks of past miracles and a god treading the stormy waters of Galilee, but that’s neither here nor there. Here, pain is hope; sin and salvation hold their hands out to each other.

“Good,” he says, and takes his brother’s hand, still bandaged, in his own. “Now, about those Atlantic perks. You in for a crab breakfast?”


	10. Beneath the Cassock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're locked in a confessional that's well below the minimum size required to host Sam in a cassock, let alone his sacrilegious plus one. Who has no business being there. But currently suffers from self-diagnosed PMSD (Post-Ma'lak Screwed-up Dean), for which the only lore-approved cure - says Dean - is a bracing, life-affirming quickie in another dark and narrow box.

"Forgive me, Father, for I am - nnnnngh - sinning!"   
  
They're locked in a confessional that's well below the minimum size required to host Sam in a cassock, let alone his sacrilegious plus one. Who has no business being there. But currently suffers from self-diagnosed PMSD (Post-Ma'lak Screwed-up Dean), for which the only lore-approved cure  - says Dean - is a bracing, life-affirming quickie in another dark and narrow box. Conveniently enough, he remembered the cure the moment they located the confessional where the preta - the Indian demon with an insatiable hunger for sin narratives, drawn from the source - has sucked four priests dry so far.  
  
"Nnngh," Sam echoes, gasping for air. Good thing _this_ box comes with a latticed opening.  
  
There's a muffled thud, meaning that Dean has either fainted or squeezed his knees to the floor. Sam tries a sweaty prayer.  _Dear Chuck, if you could kindly not thunder us. Dear Chuck, he's been through so much, and it's not like we have the Milky Way at our disposal, like you and Amara. Dear Chuck -_  Sam leaps to his feet, banging his head to the low roof. "What the heck are you -"  
  
He's never returning that cassock again.  
  
"Man, preta," comes Dean's muffled, earnest voice. "Just lettin' her know somebody else is on the job."  
  
"Nnnnnnngh!"  
  
This is not Sam, who dabbles in five languages if you count ASL and would have you know he is the articulate brother at climax peak. It's the preta, and Sam pulls the cassock down and over Dean's head at the same time as he slams the lattice open with his other hand. There's a horrible face behind it, both outraged and kinda licking its lips, and Sam only says "Bon appétit" before he throws the blend of salt, incense and copper dust at it. The preta's yell is cut short by the insta-exorcism. Not so Dean's raucous coughing.  
  
"She... gone?" he wheezes at last, his head popping out of the black folds.  
  
"She gone. You quite cured here, Houdini?"  
  
Dean struggles up to his feet, wipes his mouth. "... Sort of. He, er. He's stopped banging."  
  
"Huh." Sam stores the info into a corner of his pentagram brain. Who knew? Maybe this is all they need to keep Michael well and truly contained. Out-banging his vessel. Offence, the next best fence.  
  
"... Intriguing. You might need another dose, though."   
  
"Oh." And now Dean's eyes are level with his, two bright lords of misrule. "Hey, Baby totally counts as a dark and self-locked place, right?"  
  
"Lead the way," Sam says with a flourish, and thinks he can hear the softest, breeziest  _chuck_ le in the quieted church.


	11. Your hand in mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little AU cameo from "Lebanon". Come on, how many of us didn't do a double take at that close-up?:)

Clean and dry. Another tag-team chore for them - the earliest in Dad's long career as a serial driller, and the only one Sam never used to resent.

There was something about the warm water, or the suds, that might have kindled a call-back to happy bath times. (Dad hadn't been the type to invest in a ducky, but Dean could voice one to perfection, just as Dean could whip the flattest, droopiest bar of motel soap into a bubble craze.) Or maybe it was the cleansing. Water, not holy but lustral, letting each immersed plate rise and shine, each glass's round cheek catch the kiss of the sun- or the bunker's white neons. 

Whatever. They've done it hundreds of times, and Sam still likes it. 

A sliver of normal. The mundane flip of _heal_. 

Until _heal_  once again crashes into _real_ , and Sam puts down the spoon he's been wiping down something in his chest is giving, is overspilling. Something feels as if the gash in his heart, still tender from Dean's recent blow in planning to leave for an eternity of life in death, has reawakened. Sam had cried, then, and will cry again - he's long past giving a damn as to what that makes him, a thirty-six year old veteran. Crying means letting the salt water out of the gash, rather than keeping it inside, a terrifying parallel to the ocean swell in Dean's nightmares. (Dean still has them. Sam gatecrashed his room on their first night home and made himself a vigil for  Dean's first failed breath, before he hauled the sleeper to a vertical recovery position, one-armedly, while switching the lights on.) 

He's put every effort in being there for Dean, but right now, with the warmth of reunion, with Dad's rough-spoken laughter in his ears and Mom's clearer joy, like a vein of freshwater in a strong salty tide, all to be gone in the next hour, he's alone. Dean says "I'm good with who you are", but Sam only hears the emptiness before and behind and between them.

And then he is enveloped - his hand is - in a presence, still warm and slack by the cleansing. 

"What we are," Dean says, slowly. "What we're gonna be. I'm good with that."

It's the most dedicated he's been to his future self yet, and Sam looks down at their twined - _it's conjoined twins!_ \- hands.

"Hey," Dean says. "Anybody told me, ten years ago, we'd be having this, and Mom, and Dad at one point, I'd have kissed - his demon ass. But we did. So, who knows. Who knows how things will be, Sammy, ten years ahead. Or one death ahead. Hell - I mean, Heaven, Chuck owes us one. But right now I have you. I got you, my Sam, my man, and I'm letting no Bejezus pearl gank our time together."

"It's a Be -"

"Which it couldn't, any road, because... fuck. You really gonna make me say it?"

Slowly, Sam's lips curl up, a lopsided take on his rare grin.

"Nah. C'm'on, let's go say good-bye."

\-------------------

They catch up Cas, who pulls his Earth-brand mournful face and offers a hug, which Mary, to their surprise, takes. It's obvious that she, too, is in need of a little Heaven talk, so Sam and Dean leave them the ground floor and climb the stairs to Dean's room.

The foam mattress remembers Sam happily, moulding itself to his long form once he lies down. Dean comes out of the bathroom, his mouth freshly rinsed, hesitating.

"So," he says. "Didn't have any time to tell you, but... before he left, Dad and I had a talk."

"Oh," Sam says, dully. It's been a hard day's night, and he's not sure he can muster any more tears or smiles on demand.

"Yeah," Dean says, his voice quiet. "He, well, he felt he'd done me wrong, letting ol'Yellow Eyes colour so much of our lives. Thought he should have let me off his quest, let me to grow one of my own. Make a family, like he and Mom."

Sam's saliva grows bittersweet at the back of his mouth. "Yeah," he manages.

"So I told him, been there," Dean says, slipping under the covers. "Done that."

Sam's mouth opens a little, but no sound goes out.

"Don't think he got my drift," Dean says, more amused than he has any call to be. "Only you would. But - I'm a man of my word, Sam."

Sometimes, _only_ is the opposite of _alone_. Sam waits until Dean's arm is lying across his chest, slack and warm, to cover his brother's hand.

"Yeah," he says, bending his head so Dean can tuck his against his cheek. The foam cradles them, two shapes at one, like a benevolent surge. "Yeah, I get it. And I got you too."


	12. Be-ast my Valentine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fill for a “Proposing by exchanging dangerous animals” prompt. Contains a minor spoiler for 14x13, “Lebanon”.

Contrary to the rumours that will be vastly exaggerated - on Angel Radio, in the Super Secret Lebanon Monster Fight Club 'zine, among psychics, djinns and crocrottas, and in the exclusive Gentlemen of Letters' _Who is Who_ \- the manticore is Sam's gift to Dean.

"I..." and there's Dean speechless, once Sam has stopped his rattling about the manticore being a three-tier metaphor for Dean's courage (lion), humanity (face) and one-of-a-kind punchlines (porcupine quills on the creature's rump). "I love it, Sammy."

Because this is Sam, who declared his love at eight with a horned thingy amulet, and, at thirty-six, has actually trained one of the most lethal creatures known to man and monster to _carry Dean's dead-man slippers in its mouth_. It’s as close to "Come live with me and be my love" as Sam dares, and Dean can feel his eyes fog up at the thought.

(That they already live together - have done so for more than a decade, give or take a hundred years, is a moot point. Dean isn’t the type to look a gift metaphor in the mouth, not when it has a triple row of teeth.)

Having retrieved his slippers from the manticore ("Good b... beast"), Dean gropes behind him.

"Great minds alike, Sammy. Um. I had Cas fix it for you."

Two pairs of eyes light up in synch - one with unapologetic "IT'S CHEWTIME!" glee - when Dean hands over the yellow teddy bear. Its mouth is no longer stitched, and the ring in its back had been gilded to a lovely shine. Sam slips a finger into the ring and looks up, three parts hope, one part caution.

"Oh yeah, you can pull it," Dean says, holding the manticore back for dear life. "Once,” he adds quickly. “Twice is when it swells to a ten-foot size and, um, I'm not exactly sure what happens next."

Sam give the string a good strong tug. The gift opens its mouth and squeaks out a baritone " _Bear_ with me till death do us part?"

"Let it try," Sam says, then hugs the bear to his king-sized chest, nodding his _yes_ over the yellow ears. He can feel Dean's own joy ripple out to him, as fierce as the manticore's growl - until the manticore amps it up, a louder memo about breakfast.

"Okay, then," said Dean, and turns on his slippered heel, kitchenward. A clatter of lion claws sliding on their vintage terrazzo floor precedes him. At the door he pauses; looks fondly back to where Sam is rising, the bear flopped over his shoulder in perfect burping position, and adds, "Make it to our silver wedding, in true hunter fashion, you're getting Bigfoot."

“You’re getting a Mogwai,” Sam laughs, and ain’t that the best bitchin’ coda to the first day of the rest of their restless lives.


	13. In sickness and in health 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sick Sam and carer Dean, anyone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 is gen and young Winchesters. Part 2... will be less gen.

**1) 1989:**

 

“Kiddo, what the heck?”

“Badda Badda.”

“What? No, you’re supposed to starve a fever. Dean!”

“ _Badda Badda!_ ”

“He doesn’t want a banana, dad. He wants school - they’re doing that kid show, remember? Dopey, I know, but Sammy’s the crazy Muppet with a beard, and... ummm... got it, sir.”

“Lebbe go! Dean, leggo, I hafto be Addibal!”

“Shhh. Tell you what, shorty. You go be Addibal in Bed, and I’ll be the, er, other two.”

“De pink ladies?”

“The chromatically challenged chicks, yeah, and if you breathe one germy word of it at school, I’ll ice you. Sort of. Not like now.”

“It’s god you in it.”

“What?”

“De song. It goes Badass Dee, badass Dee. Preddy.”

“...Pretty sure it was Ba dee debede on your last hundred home rehearsals.”

“Huh… uh… and it’s... _ebbic_...”

“Oh. I… uh, okay, then. When you wake up next mahna. Sleep tight, Sammy-Sam.”

 

(The original Mahna Mahna song: [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCqkR5qioD4 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCqkR5qioD4))

 

**2) 2001.**

 

“Dude, enough with the shimmying! Just doin' my job here.”

“No. Oh no, you don’t get the hero meme, not when you’re giving me holy water shots.”

“Well, you’re still three years short of…”

“ _In my stomach_ , you goddamn sadist. Aaaah!”

“Yeah, well, next time you wanna rescue a doggie that’s pitch black and made in Baskerville, think twice. I told you to stay inside!”

“Whatever. It’s not like I’m here to - “

“What?”

“.. Nothing. Fuck, Dean, it’s supposed to be four shots in fourteen days!”

“For your garden variety rabies, sure. But this? Better sore than sorry, like Dad always -”

“Don’t.”

“Come on, belly up. For me? Hmm? Just one more, and you’ll be back to Acing your SAT, Ventura. Drive you there myself.”

“Dean…”

“Shhh. There we go. I swear, if I’d known you’d be such a pain in the… gut, I’d have hooked you up with a goldfish when you were four. Yeah? Anything you wanna say?”

“...”

"Thank god for small mercies. Aaaand we're done. Stay put, and I’ll call Dad and get you on hunt hooky. Tell him it’s your time of the month or something.”

“... I _am_ sorry, Dean.”


	14. In sickness and in health 2

**3) 2013.**

“I don’t believe this. I don’t _believe_ this. It’s fu… it’s fudging witches that make you spit out blood, not - do you even - mother - do you realize this kid’s been down on his knees in his room every night? When he’s not fighting your fudgin’ crusade? I swear to G-

Yeah, fat lot of no-good.

So. How much more, huh? How long, till you take his call? Because, I swear, if you’re waiting for him to die trying, I’ll... What happened to Jesus mild and meek, I wanna know. Come on! It’s the millennium reddux, man. In case you missed the newsletter. You don’t want a comeback drama, okay, I hear you. Didn’t work so well for Swayze either. But…

Look, I been there with my - our - dad. Been there, done that, got the deaf ear. Only I wasn’t pulling a one-man _Love Story_ and, God! I knew there was a reason I hate those freakin' flicks!

No, I’m not - I’m fudgin’ not, okay? Just - just, you heal my Sam. You hear me? You want him to nail your to-do list, then here’s mine for you!

… uh. Right here, Sammy. Nah, just checking on the floor tiles. You get vintage, you get wobbly. Did that nap -?

Oh….

Nah, no biggie. I just - I didn’t wanna to crowd you, you know? Not when you’re a bit underwater. But - you need me, you got me. It’s why I’m here. It’s why _I_ ’m here, baby, and _I_ ’m not going anywhere.”

 

**4) 2019.**

 

“... Where am I?”

“Bed. Mine. You really can’t tell?”

“Hmmrm... Soft. Hurts.”

“That’s on you, not the foam. You kinda passed out four inches past the door - head first. Managed to catch most of you, but you still went bump in the night.”

“Oh....yeah....it, uh, it’s been a hard month’s night.”

“No shit, Chief. When did you last eat something that came from a proper cow?”

“...Define an improper cow.”

“Jesus H., Sam! You don’t think it was bad enough to lose you to those bloodsuckers? I’m putting you on a steakin’ diet first thing tomorrow, see if I don’t. What? It’s a thing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Only, it’s called the Atkins diet."

"... Shut up. And close your eyes. And count the lamb chops."

"Dean. God, Dean. I’ve - really, _really_ missed you.”

“And a few meals, to boot. Hush. I’m gonna make it all better.”

“In sickness… and in health... to love...”

“Shhh. Yeah. Promise, Sammy.”


	15. Ghost Rider (1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens to Sam in the Season 2 finale, between a cold place and a kiss.

Old, yes, lean, yes, stooped - hold on. Aren’t these guys supposed to be ramrod straight? And this one’s smiling, too. A mild, enlightened smile, that tugs his goatee upward as he takes his gold-rimmed glasses off and polishes them on a pocket square handkerchief.

“Ah, young man,” he says, the poster Reaper for avuncular kindness. Okay, so Limbo’s gone out on a limb and dusted off the scholarly model to ensure Sam’s cooperation. Huh. “I’m late, and I do apologize. Very muddy, Cold Oak. Half rain, half dirt. My kind... does not do well with neither-this-nor-that terrains.”

Sam nods; turns away, his eyes already spoken for. It’s hard, going through his own wake for Dean’s rigid, raving, ravaged face. “No,” he says, in synch with Dean. Each the other’s unconsoled echo.

“ _We could… maybe_ …,” Bobby mouthes, his voice distorted as if the Reaper’s presence had turned the air between them into a transparent mirror maze, every living sound bitched and warped. “... reach an understanding?” the Reaper finishes, a dab hand at takeover. “No, no. You know the drill, Mr Winchester. Time to leave the life - again.”

Sam’s “Not yet” slots into Dean’s.

The Reaper holds a gloved hand up, and the entire scene turns dim, then too bright, then dim again, flickering until Sam has no choice but to blink away.

“Sam. You may think you’re doing the loving thing -”

“ _I want you to come with me_ ,” Bobby’s ghost voice slips in.

“ - but do you think ghost wrath and a Hell-brand DNA won’t get the better of your love?”

“I know,” Sam says, still watching Dean’s face convulse with a resolution in the making. Cold Oak has made Sam privy to every damnable choice a soul can rush, and it’s lost him Andy and Ava, and Jake too, but he’ll be damned, he first, before losing Dean. He looks at Dean’s still-breathing mouth and grabs his cue, moving his lips to Dean’s “ _I’m not going anywher_ e.”

“Yet,” Sam adds for the Reaper’s whiskered ear.

“A muddy answer. Not worth your wits, Sam Winchester. Go forth or stay on:  the choice is yours. But you know as I do that I won’t barter.”

Sam is shaking his head, and the jolt kind of flicks them forward, because now Dean is babbling - starved out of hope and options - and somehow _barter_ weaves itself into Dean’s fevered loop of words - kindling a truth with no light in it - only darkness visible...

“ _What am I supposed to do?_ ” Dean roars, and Sam turns to the Reaper, gives him his full height and his heart flung open, unmasked, pitted against the Reaper’s ruthless compassion. “What am I to do?”

“Sam -”

“This! This! Just - let me catch him, and I will, I swear to God, or Death, or you! Anywhere you want! Just, what do I do?”

"What _can_ you do, Sam?”

They’re in the car, the Reaper in the backseat. It doesn’t startle Sam that they are. Dean spent a night and a day in grief; cleaned Sam with a mother’s slow-gestured care, Sam’s body ragdolled across his lap while Dean combed the dust off every strand hair and sewed up the hole in his spine, but he did not wash himself. There’s enough of Sam’s blood on Dean for his ghost to cop a ride.

“No, no!” And Sam gropes for the intangible. He has no illusion that he can touch Dean yet, not when he’s a ghost noob and time only is of the essence. But he can feel Baby’s purr all around him - she knows him, he thinks dimly, and... maybe…

“He can't hear you,” the Reaper says, not unkindly.

Baby’s roaring, tearing sound  is all Dean’s, but her silent yes is for Sam. He dives into that open channel and finds that it holds a thousand ghost tunes: pale, shimmering shreds of _I’m rolling thunder_ and _Hey brother, do you still believe in us,_ once heard and chorused together. Baby’s hoard of faith, made over to him, and Sam sends an arrow of love after her as he aligns his mind to a tune; coaxes her knobs and her dials as he did in his lost teen years, a chubby kid techie, until her radio is crackling alert.

If he can get through to Dean...

But Dean doesn’t hear. Dean’s ears are drumming with the roar, hers and his, and by the time the crossroads looms up in the windshield, Sam has not risen above the noise and confusion.


	16. Ghost Rider 2/2

“Hell no, oh please, no,” he says, even as Dean buries Sam’s heart along with that photo ID. They’re both out of the car, only one passenger left, his gaze infinitely old and absolutely, helplessly blank. Sam holds it nonetheless, while his knees hit the dirt for the second time in twenty-four hours.

“Please,” he starts again, and he’s sobbing from the heart. Sam had four years to learn how to do things with words: why can't none of them help? “God, ah _God,_  I’m begging you. He’s going to the hounds, and I can’t, I can’t -.”

He can see her before Dean does. She’s the very model of a model temptress, red in claw and eyes, with a dress to match.

“Hmmm,” the Reaper says. His face, as he considers the demon, has a pensive cast to it. “Do you know” - light-voiced, as if this were a chit-chat session in the Dean of Studies’ office - “that your brother was almost ready to go?”

It takes Sam’s sum of will to follow his drift.

“...Yeah?”

“In the hospital,” the Reaper adds helpfully. “He’d come to his senses, you see. Far from a fool, your brother is, notwithstanding that smoke screen of _dumb blond_ he loves to feed. And then...” The glasses’ glitter hardens. Reapers, it seems, are on a par with Winchesters when it comes to holding a grudge. “And then, a demon had the audacity to possess my kin.”

“..Yeah?” Sam repeats, half of him straining towards the other talk. The lady’s not for buying, it seems, or rather she’s playing hard to get. And Dean, Sam's bright, cherished, idiotic  Dean, is gulping her bait down.

“Interesting mores,” the Reaper muses, “this art of possession. Goes all the way in, so to speak - and round.”

Sam’s feet are pushing him up before he’s aware of it. “The other way round,” he says slowly, just as the demon warns, _"If you try to weasel your way out, the deal is off "_.

“What if I vessel my way in,” Sam calls out. She turns sharply, and he takes a step to her -  through her - slotting himself into the pale-faced girl. She shrieks at being fed her own medicine; shrieks at Sam's icy will, sheathing her fire sale. And then, Sam finds it’s the easiest thing to silence her.

The next second will stay with him forever.

Her soul is the deep dark abyss he once learnt about at school, the stuff of nightmares (“It has _zombie_ worms, Dean!”); and it wrestles his, a breath away from Dean’s lips. But Dean's breath is still on, is still Dean incarnate, and the breath becomes Sam's vicarious pulse - timing his exorcism. Topsy-turvy, vice versa, as he - the ghost - burns her down, down, _down_ , her scorched self resisting him every step of the way. Only to grow in terror as the next step shrinks her, and the next. _Meet your match_ , Sam tells her, squeezing her into that last atom before nil, and as he does, and a pale dead girl slips down to the ground, he feels a counter-move.

The girl’s soul, delivered at long last.

It’s like a cool wind eddying up Sam's own air-form; it gives him thanks and a memory, added to his, of what weight and volume felt like. Briefly, beautifully, it tips Sam past the material gate - long enough for the second to elapse, and for Dean to grab his neck and push their mouths together.

And Sam’s lips are there to meet his; to  have and hold them. The kiss... the kiss ought to taste like a day and a night of mourning; unwashed and acrid; a blend of grief and saliva. It doesn’t. If anything, it tastes of Dean’s _uh?_ layered over a sun, a sea-swell and the strong pure sound of a guitar string bathing the resonance chamber that is a ghost. Sam archives the sound while he kisses - and kisses - and kisses away, his grip unfaltering on Dean’s neck. It helps that Dean is clutching back for dear life.

They release each other more or less in phase, both immediately holding their ground.

“Sammy?” Dean whispers, touching his own lips. (It has been six years since their last, a novice peck in a Greyhound station, blotched by Sam’s tears. They never spoke of it again.)

“Congratulations.” Sam takes his fingers to Dean’s, presses Dean’s gently to the kissed mouth. “You got yourself a deal.”

“But… she..."

“She never got to you. And I swear, Dean, if that's buyer’s remorse -”

Dean’s breath spills over too quickly, betraying his daze. “ _Sammy_ ,” he says. “Sam, Sammy, ah, Sam. I sensed it, I - when we kissed, I _heard_ it - man... Like Jimmy Page’s best blues riff, only better.”

“My soul,” Sam enlightens him. “Yours is more of a pentatonic. Strong stuff.”

“Strong stuff?”

“Strong stuff. And I’m taking custody of it, Dean, not her. And I’m not giving it back.”

Dean’s eyes are filling with more of the moon's pure brilliance.

“I couldn’t leave you dead…”

“And I’ll be damned before you are. Don’t, Dean. If you want this again, if you want _us_ again, then don’t go where I’ll follow you down without a second thought. It’s where they want me - Yellow Eyes and his crew. Don’t take me there, sweetheart.”

Dean is crying openly, without a noise, as Dean learnt to do all too early in his life.

“You’re not losing me,” Sam tells him. “I'm gonna be here until the all-clear, and then, I'm gonna find us a place and wait for you.” He takes a step forward and soothes Dean’s face, the long, firm downstroke that Dean showed him a night ago. “With the sun and a beach, and an all-you-can-drink keg, and Jimmy Page round the clock. I promise, Dean.”

“Sam.” Dean closes his eyes, letting his cheeks run down with Sam’s promise. “Sammy, I.”

“I know,” Sam murmurs, and kisses him long, kisses him last. When Dean opens his eyes and turns his head this way and that, Sam sighs, but takes a step back.

There is a non-committal cough at his side.

“I have to say, young man, you are a fast learner. In fact, we might be amenable to an interview, if you ever consider -”

“Later,” Sam says. He watches Dean raise a hand and wave, uncertainly, and he answers in kind before Dean enters the Impala again and drives off at a much more sedate pace. Bobby will still be there, Sam thinks. Bobby, who loves Dean like a son and will give him a home. Meanwhile…

“You have my word,” he tells the Reaper, still standing with exemplary patience at his side. “But - forgive me if I’m mistaken - I think I have a choice.”

The Reaper sighs. “As do all of our hybrid charges. And if you had any idea of the paperwork complications - “

“Sorry,” Sam says, insincerely. “Very well, then. Hell, if you will be so kind.”

“... Is this your last answer, young man?”

“I told Dean I should not follow him there, and I meant it. My dad, though? Whole other kettle.” Sam thinks of debts and deals, and Dean’s chances of staying on the straight and narrow if he sees the rest of his family at peace before they part ways topside. “We've got work to do, for Dean’s sake, and the sooner the better.”

(And then they’ll look for that waiting place, where Mom is, hopefully, and even more hopefully they'll get separate double rooms, but that’s another story.)

“So lead the way, Mr…?”

“Virgilio,” the Reaper says. When he extends his gloved hand, horizontally this time, his smile is back. It gives Sam an odd sense of comfort.  “ _Mi piace_ , Mr Winchester. My pleasure.”


	17. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fill for a "Character hires a hooker to watch a film with them" prompt. Pre-canon, Sam is eighteen.

"Um," Joss says on the phone, clicking his tongue to his palate twice quickly in a way he's been told is fetching. "What's that name again?...Ooookay. Well, Bitch, I'm not exactly in the BDSM biz, but -"

He is cut short and rather heatedly. The kid on the other end of the phone is both young- and neat-spoken, bit emphatic on word stress, currently _very_ emphatic on the fact that he, too, is  not in the biz. 

A pause.

"And college dorms are a hard no," Joss says, all smooth tones, because the kid can't be a day over eighteen.

The mystery speaker falters a bit, but discharges himself honourably enough of his next sentence.

"You... oh. Yeah. Um, yeah, you did, but "bit of roleplay" is usually less Barbie-rated in my line of - hey, don't hang up. Sorry, kid. I'm a sassy one. Oh, that's what Brady said, is it? So what, you want an hour of distinguished conversation?" Joss laughs; listens a bit more. The kid is less neat-spoken - sounds younger, which triggers an uneasy bell, but if Brady's a school peer... "Um. Um, sure, I can do this." One hand has groped a pen and is already jotting down items, tumbled down his ear by the prospective trick. 

 

_ beer _

_ popcorn, _

_ leather j.  _

_ “awesome” _

 

"Sorry, didn't catch that... I might have to do what?"

But Bitch's breath only answers, brusquely thicker - not the quickly-does-it, there-we-are thick that signals a close end to business and zipping-up time for Joss. No, but Joss knows it all the same. Felt it in his own throat, those first few times, before he got used to business. 

"Hey. Hey, kid. You all right there?"

He listens again; nods his head, and wisely deters from further queries. " _ IT _ it is, then. Yup, got the coordinates. Keep yourself safe, Bitch - I'll see you soon."


	18. Flubbing the Dub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coda for 14x15, "Peace of Mind". The boys make their own peace, with just a touch of roleplay.

_Cas to Sam: “Yes. I told him all about the cardigan.”_  
_Sam: “Great. Thanks.”_  
_Dean: “And the wife.” (Pause.) “He said you were, er, really happy.”_

_14x15, Peace of Mind_

 

“Nothing happened with the wife.”

“Huh?” Dean says, because he may have caught up on his forty winks last night, but that hardly means he’s up for a conjugial debrief at 1 a.m., after he pushed his door open to find a forlorn Sam sitting on his bed.

“It wasn’t Friday night,” Sam explains, like that’s supposed to make sense. “As I recall, I gave her a peck.” Pause. “Small one. She had cold cream slapped all over her face.”

“Oh.”

“Slept in curlers, too. For her poodle clip." (Pause.) "I wore a night cardy.”

“Jesus God, Sam. You do realize you’re giving me ammo for the next -” Dean stops, struck by a Damas-road flash of enlightenment. Of course Sam’s giving him ammo. Even if nothing happened, Sam thinks Dean thinks Sam cheated on him with Mrs. Martini. This? Is Sam atoning. And it’s all Dean’s fault for tripping  _again_  over the Hurdle of Hell, the idea of Sam away from him and happy, and sulking up his room rather than stay and thrash it out with Sam.

Of course Sam needs time. Grief needs time. Mourning needs time. Making peace with his last and irreversible Chief’s order, that Jack should not be asked to revive the hunters because there’s no knowing how they’d come back, now that Jack’s grace has been… compromised, that’s gonna take a lifetime of time.

What Sam has no time for is Dean’s curt pat on his shoulder, followed by Dean pointedly moving away. Damnit, Dean should know better.

“Hey,” he says, and envelops Sam’s frame with his arm the best he can. “The night cardy’s a nice touch. You know. Kinda like that wrap-yourself-in-cellophane shtick, only less - transparent."

Sam’s laughter is three parts air, one part try. Still, it’s a start.

“Yeah, like you’d fall for that.”

“Test me? And the glasses. Hmmm. That’s your stern, but sexy, look.”

He can feel how Sam’s shoulders give in first, how they captain the rest of him out of tension and into Dean’s care. Dean turns sideways, offering more of himself.  “So, whaddyou say we try it tomorrow - the whole kit and caboodle?”

“Tomorrow? Sir, are you telling me you intend to flub the dub?”

Oh god, there goes that oldster slang Cas mentioned too. Raising a tiny, wobbly tickle in Dean’s throat. He can’t help a smile. “Honey, it’s been a hard day’s night.”

“Don’t you sell me a pup, young man! Lying is not tolerated in my home."

(Sam’s home, Sam’s safe place. Not yet, but they’ll get there again - making silliness their safe-conduct pass, if required. Dean’s good with that..)

“Our home, Sammy, our home. Where I get to be a bad-mouthed..." (a theatrical whisper) "bad-assed... bad-all-over boy.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Golly, I ought to put you across my knee!”

And Sam’s laughter shakes Sam a bit in his arms, a merry shake, even as Dean moans to his own surprise. They’ve never tried  _that_ , though the idea did tip-toe across Dean's mind once or twice, and now the mix of Sam, Sam’s lap, Sam’s glasses, Sam’s stern but sexy hand reconnecting them, is kindling another tickle. Scratch that: is kindling a good, strong, excited ripple of _hell yeah_.

“Tomorrow?” he offers, half unsure.

But Sam’s “Tomorrow” is hope dawning at 1 a.m., is its own brittle ceasefire with trauma, even as Sam switches off the bedside lamp, and that’s good enough for Dean and tonight.


	19. Cat and Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title says, no more, no less. (Humour.)

"Let me guess," Castiel told Jack over milk and a PB & J double-decker. (Jack had taken to those cautiously - then, once Cas switched the PB for turrón, with a fervour that made Cas glad.) "Dean is the mouse?"

Jack squinted to where the mouse sat on the kitchen table, his back turned to the company. "I... think so," he ventured. "He sneezes when the cat tries to come near."

As if to prove him right, the long-haired Birman pushed his paw mouse-ward. The mouse made a "frrrt" sound, then lifted its own forefoot, obviously so it could curl its first and third claws inwards.

"Ah, so it was Sam who found the curse."

"Yes, but it's all fine, I found the antidote." Jack, setting a crumb before the mouse, lit up. Then clouded down. "Only, it's a Partim Contrariis."

The Partim Contrariis, for once a well-meaning curse, had been devised long ago to change enemy kings into panthers and capybaras, and keep them in that less than enviable state until they exchanged a kiss of peace. Having failed to achieve world peace, the curse had been watered down and mostly used in witches' divorce courts. The Men of Letters must have acquired one of the latter-day variants.

"But they won't kiss," Jack added forlornly. "I've given them a pep-talk all afternoon, and - "

"No, as a species, they don't. They hug." Cas tilted his head, rerouting his mind to the behavioural issue at stake. "We _could_ try rubbing pie on Sam's whiskers."

Sam meowed firmly.

"It's all right," Jack was quick to reassure him. "Dean always says a nip counts as a kiss."

"Or," Cas went on, his eyes a manic shade of blue, "we could have Sam groom Dean."

Dean's hiss was more of a lisp, but it was a feral lisp.

"Oh, for Father's sake," said Cas, and picked him up. He barely blinked at the nip to his thumb, before he moved his charge closer to his cobalt gaze. "You kissed him a thousand four hundred sixty-two good nights, until the baby-sitter called you cute and created a diversion. Tonight is no different. Now go and save your brother."

Dean nose-dived; landed on all fours; skidded a nifty trail between the crumbs, until he caught hold of Sam's tail, and somehow jogged up to the plateau between Sam's triangular ears. Once there he wheezed twice, pointedly, and made a show of rubbing his snout to the furry, furrowed brow.

There was a flash, there was a crash, and Cas caught the sandwich plate on the fly.

"Next time," Dean told Sam, his voice still on the squeaky end of pitch, " _you_ can kiss my - "

"Butter?" Jack said, prompting the jar back to his palm. Sam laughed, the sound vibrant in his throat, and when Dean paused to heed Sam's laughter, Cas smiled. It was still a long way to world peace, but tonight at least all would be well in the world of men, mice and angels.


	20. Villanelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel watches Sam during the events of "Mystery Spot".

Watching you loop a brother's loop

Rouses a pang that shouldn’t be:

Am I not the trick, you the dupe?.

Bucko, you may well jump that hoop,

But the next will grieve you and me

Watching you loop a brother’s loop

If I shed the mask, would you stoop

And beg from the heart for your De?

In vain, in vain, you nincompoop.

There he dies again. With a whoop,

Asia claims you in heartless glee,

Watching you loop a brother’s loop.

You love him so - hardly a scoop.

Once I told mine,  _I shall save thee_

In vain, in vain, you nincompoop.

Oh, screw it – you - that maple goop!

Next time, I’ll switch to strawberry…

In vain, in vain, you nincompoop,

Watching you loop a brother’s loop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written a fill for a "Groundhog Day, poetry" challenge. The cyclical villanelle is my favorite poetic form, and quite fun to write - try it once!

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written before I caught up with the latest ep, in which Dean praises his own "cat-like reflexes". Looks like I've done him a typecasting wrong! But the idea of turning Sam into a long-haired feline was too appealing to let pass, and, as we all know, Dean is emphatically not a cat person.:)


End file.
